


The Second Hand

by LangdonSnareMD



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Acceptance, Aftermath, Anxiety, Catharsis, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Gen, Holy Water, Hopeful Ending, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, post-trial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-01 07:33:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20811392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LangdonSnareMD/pseuds/LangdonSnareMD
Summary: As Crowley entered his Mayfair apartment, he froze midstep, hand still gripped the door handle. A pile of Ligur still dribbled where he left him, unattended and unsupervised. It solidified how completely final the act was.He knew once he stood by Adam’s side, there was no way after entering hell, a chance of leaving it again. Exile was never an option beforehand. A thought pushed itself against forehead, maybe the duck and towel were for Aziraphale to escape the terrors of hell had prepared for his last moments alive. Humor as a coping mechanism, humans would say.But that’s a question for another millennium.





	1. Chapter 1

Time was a right bastard when one would stop to think about it. The years between the anti-Christ’s arrival to to Armageddon passed almost without notice. During and after two failed executions, time did not even think to focus, to stutter when the world’s guardian’s stepped into their almost deaths. Steady on as always; it seems the British sentiment invaded the temperament of time as well. Or maybe that’s God’s fault? It’s just the way She likes it, unknowable. Besides, it’s not like anyone has heard from Her since Eden was an oasis.

For two immortal beings who now had no supervisors breathing down their corporeal necks, time’s fickle nature brought new meanings. Without reports to complete, there was less purpose to continue into the next day. No more young, potential saints to bring messages from God of love and hope. No tempting powerful men and women towards corruption. No columns of light guiding wary humans towards salvation. No more deflecting and evening out the powers of good or evil. Which at this point, it is agreed it wasn’t good and evil that was being balanced, but just two opposing siblings actions done to spite the other and gain Mother’s favor.

This was briefly mentioned by Crowley in the back room of the bookshop. After the Ritz and right before the second bottle of wine. He’d made a vague mention of time and jobs and punching out and how HR would have heard from him if he was still incognito upstairs. Aziraphale made a sound of agreement as he poured half the bottle of wine into his glass, also mentioning how the archangels and dukes of hell should have a mediation appointment. The conversation was long forgotten once the celebratory bottle of champagne that Arizaphale had stashed for a special occasion. Another speck in the sunlight that is time.

Upon waking and sobering up, the two beings departed to their respective homes, as they had an eternity to plan their eternities.

As Crowley entered his Mayfair apartment, he froze midstep, hand still gripped the door handle. A pile of Ligur still dribbled where he left him, unattended and unsupervised. It solidified how completely final the act was. The sheer anger he felt towards the archangels and how they treated Aziraphale completely obscured the idea of how he would have ended. Maybe the angel added in the duck and towel moments to bring brevity, since he always feared for Crowley’s instinctual reactions. A shiver started at the base of his spine, slowly creeping up all 200 or so vertebrae he had. He knew once he stood by Adam’s side, there was no way after entering hell, a chance of leaving it again. Exile was never an option beforehand. A thought pushed itself against forehead, maybe the duck and towel were for Aziraphale to escape the terrors of hell had prepared for his last moments alive. Humor as a coping mechanism, humans would say.

But that’s a question for another century.

Crowley snapped, but the puddle remained. The holy water may be too concentrated for a demon to miracle away. He dropped his head back letting out an exaggerated sigh before heading for the gloves and apron used to retrieve it from the thermos. He hasn’t been this careful since he asking for the stuff back in the 1800’s. While trying to wipe up the substance left over with towels and gingerly placing those into a container of tap, a small sweat began to break out across his brow. Being this close to the stuff made him slightly less comfortable than when he watched it splash across the Chameleon and body beneath. After all these years, he began to think he understood why Aziraphale was so reluctant to give it over. The pure essence of it made him nauseous. 

He doesn’t regret asking, since it did save his life; he does regret the resentment he felt when Aziraphale walked away in the park. The sheer exasperation was enough to put him to sleep for close to 90 years. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was the pin that pricked into the center of Crowley’s chest as he watched Aziraphale storm away. The one that quickly grew to an ache, both cold and hot spreading into his lungs. Even when he chose to stop breathing, it seeped further back into his spine.

And by the time he reached his flat, it pierced his heart with a feeling he couldn’t quite place. 

Before he knew it, Crowley had drank a bottle of scotch and slept a whole century just to get the ache to stop.

What a waste of a millennium. 

The water was eventually diluted enough for Crowley to make it disappear. Once it was gone he walked to the front of his desk, placing his fingertips against the dark surface. There was still some left over paperwork sitting atop it, along with the astrology books that he ripped apart during the apocalypse. The reports sat half finished on old, yellowing papers. Names of sins heading the top of them, with whichever demon in charge of the primary sin it would fall into under that. Crowley raised his eyebrows contemplatively. No use turning those in and reminding downstairs that he’s still galavanting on Earth. With a snap, the ink disappeared, leaving old parchment to show his plants what will become of them later. He would have lit it ablaze like most things he has no use for. But the idea of burning a few pieces of paper didn’t sit very well.

If he let his mind wander for too long, he could swear he saw in his periphery burning paper and ashes flitting upwards in a draft of raging fires. Hear the crackling of the best tinder a flame could wish for, louder than the yells for a being that no longer existed on this plane.

Crowley clenched his jaw. No more. Aziraphale was back in his fully restored, cluttered as ever bookshop. Hell didn’t come for him prematurely. His soul was not wiped out of existence.

He could move past this. They both can move past this. Because now, there are no hurdles to jump, no barricades to sneak around. Everything could be out in the open. Their meetings, though they no longer have to be so formal; could be enjoyed at anytime without reparations. Decades, years could be shortened to weeks, even days in between. 

Amicable gestures that two sworn enemies would never have thought possible, if only their supervisors were better at showing them the difference between the two.

He didn’t hide the content smile that eased its way across his face. 

If he recalled correctly, Aziraphale did mention going on a picnic one day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took much longer to write Aziraphale's section. But the ending conversation felt at home.  
I hope these partner pieces work well together and are enjoyed.

Back in the old Soho bookshop, the newly freelance angel stood staring down two bookshelves, feel stock still. Approximately 4 hours ago, the free demon had departed back to his own flat after celebrating the grand re-opening of the world with a post meal wine. After saying their goodbyes, Aziraphale was going to go to the backroom for some late-night reading. As he crossed the threshold of the storefront, he noticed something different in the atrium.

At the center, above a rotunda-like ceiling sat a rug. It sat there very well, since that’s what it’s been created to do. But this one was not the one he bought over 200 years ago. Instead of the round grey rug that was there before being discorporate, sat a square beige rug with tasseled ends. That particular rug was nothing special, really. Its main purpose was to cover the ethereal runes that created a portal to heaven. Aziraphale should be thinking about how poorly this rug ties the store front together. He also would be thinking that it’s not the worst, since Adam never did see the book shop before the apocalypse. But the difference reminded him more of the conversation with Metatron, before being unceremoniously discorporated. 

The thought made him feel… something. Something akin to human emotion. But not the normal one he would experience when thinking of heaven. Not the claustrophobic squeeze that creeps up his neck and swells his throat that accompanies talking with the archangels. Nor the warmth or breadth of air that happens when Crowley and he are together. He could feel a tremble starting within his core. It ached within chest. A shift within his soul. It almost feels like what Crowley described his fall to be like; on those late drunken nights that were more of drunken mornings he talked of his soul, of heaven – God being ripped out of his soul like an arm from a body. With his wings on fire and a soul desolate of Her love, he described something Aziraphale thought he’d never be able to relate to. 

Yet now, with the knowledge of heaven disowning him, he felt something being pulled out of him. Not a whole arm, mind you, but it reminds him of the time he was stabbed during the first world war. Swift and gone before you even notice. What you do notice though is the rush of life leaving the body. A chill down to his soul. One that is so cold it begins to burn his essence. One that no matter how much you try to push it back, it floods between numbed fingers and escapes into the earth.

But why did it hurt? He can’t blame Adam for not knowing the difference between antique décor.

With a huff, Aziraphale strode over to the rug and gave it one swift pull, revealing that the ethereal portal was still there. Dull and flat, etched into the concrete floor not so much different than how a crosswalk is painted onto a road. Huh, the young anti-Christ may not know anything about worldly decorations, but the heavenly ancestry must have stood strong.

Looking at the circle made his chest hurt more, gushing with that feeling from before. Or maybe just another puncture into his lungs. It took him a while to want to breathe again.

Home.

This is –

Was?

His door back home.

But it wasn’t. His home is here, on earth, the one to witness to that is humanity. The only angel to bear it’s history.

Maybe that’s why he hurt. Not because he lost the alliance of the angels. Because he knew how they felt about him. He knew how Uriel talked about him with the other archangels. He knew why Sandalphon smiled when he took that punch before the end of the world. He knew that God hasn’t answered his prayers since Mesopotamia.   
He hurt because now he didn’t belong anywhere. No matter how much they bullied him, they were still the only family he could claim. One that no matter the relationship, was connected to him since before the universe created eternity.

Being unique was a human concept, one they quite liked to be. Uniqueness, for Aziraphale, has only gotten him ridicule and banishment.

His shoe brushed the edges of the painted circle. Without the candles, he knows it’s not on, yet he wonders if it’s because of him that he doesn’t feel the silence of the world around him, nor the electricity of heaven’s air. Probably for the better, he glumly thought to himself, since last time he crossed into the sigil he lost his corporation and he and Crowley almost lost everything to the apocalypse.

The thought gave him pause.

Crowley had almost lost everything. Because Crowley had always believed in the world. Because Crowley believed in Aziraphale.

Because Crowley, when faced with Aziraphale’s disappearance and bookshop ablaze, decided that maybe it was best that everything be destroyed. 

His chest flooded with warmth.

Because when all is said and done. Crowley faced Heaven for Aziraphale, just as Aziraphale faced Hell for Crowley.

Because they were on their own side.

He wasn’t alone, not when Crowley is still alive on Earth. With 6000 years of history together, thwarting each other and dining together, loving humanity in a way no other supernatural being do. A type of compassion no other demon or angel has felt for another of God’s creation. Not even another supernatural being. It’s something that Crowley and Aziraphale share. 

6000 years being written as adversaries; 6000 years that Aziraphale so carefully danced to keep both of them safe from their head offices. Maybe he played it too safe, kept Crowley too far, acting colder than necessary to keep the façade alive. Aziraphale can only hope that Crowley knows he only did it for his safety.

With unabashed persistence, Crowley has always shown his hand to Aziraphale, of how much he believed in him. His grand gestures of kindness, small miracles to impress him, to gain his trust. The fact that he doesn’t wear his glasses in the bookshop, or the pain in his voice when he told of the fire in the bookshop. Only Crowley has shown such compassion. A beating, human-like heart behind that cold reptilian exterior he puts on for his former colleagues. 

No longer is that a problem. Now, Aziraphale can show Crowley how he really feels, his companionship, his sentiment, his love he shares with Crowley – for Crowley.

A shrill ring split the quiet of the bookshop. He now noticed how quick his breathing was. He rolled his neck, taking in a large breath before ungluing himself from the sigil before him. As his picked up the phone he noted how the horizon cut across the sun.

“I’m terribly sorry, but we are closed –”

“Aziraphale, it’s me.”

If the angel relied on his human organs, the amount of times he feels pressure against where a heart would be worrisome.

“Oh, Crowley.” He perked up, at first in joy before a crisp air swept at his neck. “Are you alright? Is everything okay?”

The demon made some non-committal sounds, trying to realign himself with the conversation. “I—uh, yeah. No, I mean yeah, everything is alright. No demons besides m’self. I, uh, er, well…Are you alright? I mean, how are you?”

Aziraphale sighed, a small smile settling on his lips. On the desk, he tapped his fingernail against an old inkwell, one that, if he recalled correctly, Crowley may have stolen from a monastery on a dare. “I’m well. Just thinking. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“Well…” There’s a large sigh, a small pop of a neck cracking, “I just come to find a lot of time open. I’m, uh, I’m probably going to be available until the next apocalypse begins, I should think.” Aziraphale couldn’t help the flush that he felt across his face. The warmth in his chest had expanded into his limbs.

They both chuckled a bit. Aziraphale began to wander away from his desk, his telephone cord becoming implausibly long. In the other hand, he carried the inkwell with him, idly turning it as he drifted through his books. “What a coincidence, my schedule has seemed to clear as well.” He stopped in front of the sigils, the white stark lines almost carved into his flooring. No longer did he inhale with a fear of daggers piercing his skin. No dread of heaven’s disdain. “Do you know. I happen to remember a mention of having a picnic some point in the future.” 

He could almost hear how pleased Crowley was. “Angel, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

Aziraphale gave one last pause before upturning the inkwell, more ink than possible pouring out of the well across the heavenly symbols on the floor, crisscrossing the fine white lines until the circle looked like an abstract piece that those American’s loved so much. Once the ink stopped, imperceptibly empty from the well, Aziraphale placed it on a bookend. Confidence welled inside of him. Admiration all but poured from his eyes. Not since the Blitz had he felt so filled with love.

“Well my dear, then it’s a date.”


End file.
